Thursday, January 23, 2014

women in cold places

Ten below (or so), not much snow, lingering coughs and colds. This is the time of year we start counting our pennies and dreaming of other places (Florida and California; always Florida and California).

It's the time of year we start dreaming of other ways of being. As in: why here? (You know you're deep into it when your one-and-a-half year old screeches: "back!" every time he sees bare skin of any kind.)

As a means of answering that why here question, my bedside table piles up with books like these: The Snow Child, To Siberia, Bear Down, Bear North, Glaciers, in an attempt to find the women of the snow who make such a life seem noble, worthwhile, beautiful.

We read to be transported; we read to form and transform our understanding of ourselves and the places in which we live.

Young girls, young women, women, old women, bracing themselves against the cold,  going inward (or batty) amidst wide expanses of blinding white. I am you and you are me. So glad to be here with you.

PS: another me in another time (in Florida):